Sharing the Road
by mongoose-bite
Summary: Various Dovahkiin and their companions meet, bicker, adventure, fight, plan, become friends and sometimes lovers. Femslash, slash and het. Full list of NPCs in chapter titles. Chapter Ten: Jase clearly needs someone to keep his feet on the ground. Onmund doesn't feel up to the task.
1. Lydia

A/N: All places and characters belong to Bethesda Softworks. No profit is being made from this work. This is currently just a one-shot but I may add further stories of other Dovahkiin and their companions as the mood strikes me. Enjoy.

* * *

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and to Arnheim, Thane of Whiterun and dragon-slayer, even if he wasn't entirely convinced about the whole Dragonborn thing, both were a greater burden than all the dragon bones, iron ore, potions, bearskins and assorted weapons that were actually burdening his loyal housecarl, Lydia. She marched three steps behind him as he doggedly walked on to Rorikstead. They travelled in silence, hers disapproving while he was simply mute with suffering.

Aside from the pounding headache, this was nothing new. Sixth son of a miller and lacking a great deal of direction in his life, Arnheim had been called a fool more often than he'd been called a hero, and Lydia clearly sensed it. She'd served him uncomplainingly and unhesitatingly and in a manner that made him feel entirely unworthy of her.

He'd hoped she'd grow to like him, even a little bit. Given how the day had started, this eventuality was as remote as the moons in the sky.

It was with great relief that he saw the little hamlet that was their destination ahead of them, and he actually managed to pick up the pace a bit.

He stumbled into town, and went to ask directions from the nearest farmhand. He'd barely opened his mouth when the man bellowed at him.

"You! You've got a lot of nerve showing yourself in this town again!"

"Oh, this isn't good," Arnheim muttered.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

Lydia pressed her lips together to prevent herself from smiling as the farmer berated her Thane; Arnhein saw her. Of all the things to find funny, he thought.

"Could you please stop shouting?" Arnhein offered.

"No!" Was the response, even louder than the first and Arnheim flinched. "You're not even sorry. My Gleda is still out there, alone and afraid, and you kidnapped her and sold her to that giant."

Arnheim's mouth went dry, "I...I did what? I don't remember, I swear." Maybe Lydia's opinion of him was the right one after all.

"I'll never breed another prize winning goat like Gleda again."

"A goat?" He blinked. "Oh, thank the Divines. I thought I'd done something terrible."

"You have done something terrible!"

"Please stop shouting!" the hungover Nord hollered back and then instantly regretted it and lowered his voice again. "Look, did I say anything about a staff? Or where I'd been?"

"You might have mentioned something. I'll tell you when you get my goat back."

Arnheim just looked at him, red-eyed and still stinking of whatever he'd poured down his neck in such great quantities the night before. He smiled easily most of the time, but right now he looked more like a bear woken prematurely from hibernation.

"Are you sure you can't remember?" he growled.

"Don't hurt me! All right, you said was that you had to repay Ysolda in Whiterun, something about a wedding ring."

"Ysolda? Ysolda thinks I'm getting married? Maybe I did get married." He stared at his own hands in sudden horror, but he wasn't wearing a ring. "This is awful. My sweet Ysolda, I haven't even found her a mammoth tusk yet."

That had been an eventful hunting expedition, and it had led to him and Lydia legging it over half of Skyrim and hiding in a cave until the arrow-peppered mammoths had gotten bored and gone home again. And now he might have irrevocably screwed things up with the beautiful merchant. As if this hangover wasn't bad enough.

The farmer was still cowering and Arnhein hung his head, "I'll go and find your goat," he said. "It's the least I can do to make amends."

Lydia sighed, adjusted the pack on her back slightly, and trudged up the hill after him.

It wasn't a glorious battle. Arnhein did his best to reason with the giant as he pursued him and the goat, but the creature wouldn't listen to reason and the warrior had to reach for his sword. The giant advanced on him and smacked him hard enough with his club to send him careening down the hill.

"_FUS! RO-_ow my head." There didn't seem to be a way to use dragonspeech quietly.

"He-yah!" Lydia darted in and neatly severed the tendons on the back of the giant's leg, and the battle continued until the great creature fell. Arnhein felt rather bad about it.

The goat nuzzled Arnhein's hip as he removed the giant's toes – waste not want not, and it would be a shame to let the wolves get them. Still, it looked particularly nauseating this morning, the glistening bone and raw meat.

"Urg," Arnhein groaned. "Carry this would you?" He held it out to Lydia.

She sighed and took the object, "I'm sworn to carry your burdens."

"Is that all you can say, really?" He looked at her from under his untidy mop of blonde hair. "I'm having the worst day of my _life_, well, except for the day they nearly executed me, and you just sigh at me. If your oath is such a burden, you have my permission to lay it down and go home."

Lydia considered this for a few moments, and set her jaw. "Do I have permission to speak freely as well?"

"You can do whatever the hell you want."

"May I point out that this 'worst day of your life' is entirely your own fault? Every time I was about to go to sleep your drunken ass would drag me out to some other wretched inn in the middle of nowhere." She frowned, "I don't even remember you selling a goat. I can only hope I slept through the wedding, if indeed there was one." She rubbed her eyes, "It feels like that bender went on for weeks. I'd wake up and we'd be somewhere else, or on the back of a cart-" She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. You got yourself into this mess, and you can get yourself out. Don't worry about all this junk, I'll drop it at your house."

And with that she turned and marched off, leaving Arnhein trying to get the goat to stop nibbling at his gloves.

It took him almost the rest of the day to walk back to Whiterun. Mostly because he kept stopping to work out what he was going to say to Ysolda. Unfortunately it was a bit hard to make excuses when one wasn't sure what one had done wrong to start with. He'd bought a wedding ring. How could he? Maybe she'd not want to speak to him at all.

"I'll never drink again," he swore, for the fourteenth time since he'd woken up in the Markath temple.

The shadows were long when he approached the Whiterun stables. Maybe he'd get an early night and worry about Ysolda the next morning.

When he got closer he realised a figure was leaning against the stable wall, arms folded, waiting for him.

Lydia.

He walked up and stopped.

"You don't smell as bad as you did this morning," Lydia said.

"I had a bath," he said. "In a stream. Since you weren't there to be embarrassed."

Lydia snorted. "I'm not the one likely to be embarrassed." She unfolded her arms and tossed something at him, it arced high in the air, glinting in the sun for a moment before he caught it. A gold ring. A wedding ring.

Arnheim raised his eyebrows.

Lydia shrugged. "I talked to Ysolda and found out where the wedding was supposed to be and then I went and got the ring back for you. You owe me the price of a horse, by the way. I think I'll call her Gleda."

"Wait, so, who had the ring?"

Lydia regarded him steadily, "Trust me on this, you really don't want to know."

He nodded, maybe some things were better left forgotten. "You talked to Ysolda?" Arnhein asked uncertainly.

Lydia let him suffer for a few moments longer.

"I spun her a story of misunderstandings and misguided love and I left her misty-eyed and positively aching to mend your poor broken heart."

He gaped for a few moments, and then a slow smile stole across Arnhein's face. "You're a woman of many talents. I didn't know you cared," he teased gently.

"I didn't know either. But, you didn't set out to hurt anyone, and I know you're going to walk the length of Skyrim putting things right one way or another. That's something to be lauded; not many would do the same. And to be honest, I should have stayed awake and stopped you from making such a fool of yourself. You weren't much of a Thane, but I wasn't much of a housecarl either."

"So, friends?" He offered her his hand.

She shook it. "Yes, my Thane. What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to find Ysolda and give her back this ring," he said. "And then we're going to find Sam Guevenne and his staff, and we're going to break it over his head."

Lydia laughed. "I approve."

Arnhein had never heard her laugh before.


	2. Roggi KnotBeard

Roggi knew he would never have asked an Argonian if he'd been entirely sober. On the day Quez-Ja had stuck her scaly snout into the Braidwood Inn, asking for work, he'd been feeling particularly sour. His mead debts were mounting, and the thought of the days of mining – once something he took pleasure and pride in – that stretched unbroken ahead of him meant even the sweet spirits weren't lifting his mood.

She'd asked him what was wrong, and to his surprise, he'd told her. She tapped one of the little horns above her eyes then, something Roggi later learned meant she was recalculating her travelling time, and then she'd bid him farewell. He hadn't thought much of it until the next day, when she simply walked in and handed him his family shield, as if he'd asked her to pass the salt.

He had no money to repay her with. He had less than no money, Iddra was taking a large slice of everything he earned at the mine to pay his drinking debts.

"If you see fit to bring me along with you," he found himself saying, "I would dearly love to get away from this place."

She shrugged, "Come on then."

"Seriously?"

She didn't answer him directly, she simply stuck out her gloved hand, "Quez-Ja."

"Roggi Knot-Beard." He shook the proffered hand, secretly glad it was gloved. He'd honestly never seen an Argonian this close before, and it was a little unnerving.

"Ah, named for your beard," She nodded understandingly.

"Erm. No. It's a family name, but it seemed like the obvious thing to do to grow one."

"So you weren't born with the beard?"

"No." Okay, fair enough, he had no idea what baby Argonians looked like either. Or even if they were hatched from eggs or not.

Quez-ja didn't mention it again until he'd collected his meagre belongings – his shield and an old bow he used for hunting – and they'd left Kynesgrove behind.

"I feel sorry for your mother," she said.

Roggi could only imagine what his mother would have made of _that_.

And so they'd travelled. Roggi hadn't cared too much where they were going, he just wanted to get away from the mine, and that was a good thing because Quez-Ja didn't seem to have a plan in mind. She went in whatever direction took her fancy, offering help to anyone who looked like they needed it – or she took mercenary work; they had to eat after all, and Roggi found himself slowly paying off his debts via courier.

He'd asked her why she went around helping people, and wondered if there was some dark past she was atoning for.

"I like helping people."

Apparently not.

He found himself scowling whenever someone hissed a slur at her back or refused her service, but that didn't seem to bother her that much either.

"Nords are not so popular in Black Marsh either," she pointed out.

Roggi hunted game for them, and insisted on cooking it. He gathered herbs and tried to remember what his mother had taught him about combining them. Quez-Ja never asked him to, but if he was honest he felt he was taking advantage of her.

For all her cheerful demeanour, Quez-Ja was fierce in battle. She wielded two maces mercilessly, and apparently fearlessly. She had the knack of a bit of healing magic, and apparently she liked it better than a shield. He thought she was a member of the College of Winterhold, but she never mentioned it, and she never did anything remotely wizard-like, other than the occasional healing spell. Which was a relief, really.

But all this meant that Roggi found himself in debt again, although he was sure Quez-Ja would tell him he owed nothing. But he owed everything. From the boots on his feet, to the gold in his pack to the new strength and cunning with which he pulled his bowstring. He just wanted, just once, to make it worth his friend's while having him along, for something more than friendly conversation and an extra pack to carry things in.

"Are you really sure we should be down here? This is a sacred place."

"And it's full of these horrible dead things. If my ancestors were down here, I'd want to look after this place a bit better."

"What do Argonians do with their dead anyway?" Quez-Ja answered his questions so easily, if not always truthfully, Roggi had lost his initial awkwardness regarding Argonian culture.

"They return to the marsh-shh! I think I heard something."

"You're looking for something specific, aren't you?" Roggi asked, some time later, as Quez-Ja examined a strange stone door, lining up the engravings carefully.

"It's an old story," she said, stepping back with a satisfied look as the door lowered itself into the floor. "There were three evil sons. Here, read this." She handed him a book, one of only a couple she carried in her pack.

"This is, I mean, where we are now is Geirmund's Hall," he said, his eyes going wide once he'd reached the end of the tale. "You're looking for the amulet!"

"No," Quez-Ja shook her head and regarded him with pale, reptilian eyes. "I'm looking for the sons."

"Why?"

"Evil should be cleansed. Not left to fester underground and grow stronger. Look." She handed him two scraps of paper. "Two of the sons have been laid to rest. Permanently this time."

A breeze, cold and smelling of dead things, ruffled the furs Quez-Ja wore. She unslung her maces, "Are you coming?"

"I'm right behind you, but this gives me a bad feeling."

Roggi's feelings didn't get any more optimistic as they waded through the dank, icy water towards the tomb. He was still on the stairs when the lid was flung aside by the creature within. Quez-Ja was already in motion, covering the ground in long, bounding strides, her maces raised to strike.

She swung through empty air.

"What the?"

They were confronted by not one but three of the creatures, each on a raised platform in the water, and each wielding a bow. Roggi ducked as arrows flew, but he wasn't the target. Quez-Ja staggered as the missiles found their target, and he could hear the hum of her healing magic as she turned and leaped into the water, flinging the arrows aside as she did so.

Roggi picked one of the undead at random and let his arrow fly. To his surprise, the creature vanished, just as Quez-Ja pulled herself up onto another platform and dispatched another.

Encouraged, Roggi aimed at the third. It barely seemed to feel it as the arrow buried itself in the creature's neck. Quez-Ja could swim like nothing else, she leaped from the water in front of the creature like a spawning salmon, maces swinging. And again, the dead prince vanished. This time he appeared right behind Roggi. He didn't have time to draw his sword; he wasn't very good with it anyway. He fired point-blank, a detached part of him amazed that he hadn't frozen in sheer terror, because the evil prince's glowing, undead eyes were perhaps the most horrifying thing he'd ever seen.

This horrifying vision, however, was quickly eclipsed by the sight of an arrow, its feathers dark and ragged, protruding from his chest. The draugr prince had fired point-blank too before he'd vanished again. Roggi staggered, dropping his bow as he fumbled for one of his potions.

He raised it to his lips with trembling fingers when something big crashed into him, sending the precious vial rolling away on the floor.

Quez-Ja.

Three arrows protruded from the wall in front of which he'd been standing. She dragged him behind an outcropping of rock, and they huddled out of sight.

"I can't get near him," she said, her hands aglow with magic. "Don't look, don't breathe."

Roggi looked. And nearly fainted as she yanked the arrow out of his chest.

"I told you. Feeling better?"

She didn't wait for him to anwswer. "There are two fakes and a real one," she said. "If we get close, he just runs away." She risked peering around the rock and arrows streaked past her nose. "We're pinned down."

"I need my bow," Roggi said.

She looked at him, "I'll get it for you. Sit tight."

Roggi's heart was in his mouth as she broke cover. She was so brave. He would be brave. Not just a miner. Not just a mead-drinker. Come on, he told himself. She tumbled, snatching the bow from the ground as she rolled and hid behind a rock on the other side. Several arrows littered the ground in her wake. He saw her sharp teeth as she smiled.

She slid the old bow across the ground to him and he stooped and picked it up. He took a deep breath, notched an arrow, and stepped out of cover. Keep moving, he thought, as an arrow whistled past his cheek. He released his own, and a one of the draugr vanished. Next arrow, smooth, calm, take that one down too.

Pain bloomed down his leg.

"I got it." Replaced almost instantly with numb warmth of healing. Roggi forced himself to be calm, and stepped back the other way, as the illusions returned. Now he knew who the real enemy was, however, and took aim again.

He ran out of arrows.

His quiver rattled as Quez-Ja dropped handfuls of missiles she'd collected from the walls and floor into it, and he sent the ancient wooden arrows back to their source. His arms ached, sweat trickled into his eyes and he blinked them clear, furiously. His hands were raw; they'd blistered and the blisters had burst in his gloves. He would not give up. The draugr prince looked like a pincushion.

And then the illusions vanished, and the creature fell with a cracking of old, dried bones.

"Ah." Roggi said, and fell to his knees.

He remembered Quez-Ja slapping him on the back, and retrieving the third amulet and the scrap of paper from the corpse, along with a dozen of his arrows. The prince had a dark, gleaming bow clutched in his bony hands, and Roggi found it resting across his back when sunlight and the smell of grass and freshwater brought him back to his senses.

They sat on a slab of rock, Roggi drinking one of the bottles of mead he always carried, and Quez-Ja poring over the scraps of paper.

He heaved a sigh and examined the weapon, "Are you sure you don't want this bow? It's beautiful."

"It's pretty clear you'll get more use out of it than I will," Quez-Ja said. "I can't hit the broad side of a mammoth."

"Thank you," he said quietly. He lifted his head and felt sun on his face.

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said.

He looked at her. "I..."

"We both know it's true. I'm glad I had you along."

"I'm glad you gave me a chance."

"So we're all glad! You can take that serious look off your face now." She held up the three amulet fragments with a toothy smile, "I think I've worked out how to put this together. What do you think? Should we give it a try?"

Roggi pitched the empty bottle into the lake, where it sank with a few bubbles. "Yeah, why not? At least find out what it does."


	3. Ulfric Stormcloak

A/N: Yes, noncanonnical followers ahoy! There were plenty of NPCs I would have liked to take along, but alas I wasn't given the option. Also, these things just keep getting longer for some reason.

* * *

Ulfric knew Drade Hlaren could be as quiet as a cat. He also knew when she wanted attention she could walk like a giant. She was doing that now. He hadn't had to look up from the diplomatic missives that were now flooding in before the planned moot to know it was her; no one else flung the double doors of his hall open with such noise, and no one could make leather boots ring on cold stone the way she could.

He'd been waiting for this. When Solitude had fallen, she'd said hardly a word, accepted his thanks, and rode out while the city was still burning, but he hadn't believed himself lucky enough to have seen the last of her. Her loyalty had proved to be solid, but he hadn't liked the fact that the Dunmer was famous among his Stormcloaks, and that the history books would record her race, if not her name. But there was little he could do about it now, and he didn't like to consider what might have happened if she'd sided with the Legion.

And here she was, not two months later, just as imperious and fire-eyed as always, blades on her back, and Thu'um curling at the back of her throat. He let her wait for a while, after her footsteps had fallen silent a respectful distance from his throne.

He looked up, "Welcome back, Thane."

"Jarl Ulfric." She bowed her head, just far enough to be polite. "I am in need of aid."

An underling came up and collected the papers he'd signed before scurrying off again. At least one thing could be said for Drade; she wasn't boring, unlike paperwork.

"Speak, what would you ask of me?"

"That you ride with me, fight with me, one last time, for Skyrim."

"Have you started another war, Drade?" He wouldn't have put it past her.

"No." She looked faintly amused at the idea. "This war is ongoing. I need your voice, Ulfric."

Ridiculous; he was negotiating for the throne of the High King. He couldn't just ride off somewhere.

"I am somewhat occupied," he said.

"I would not ask you if I had any choice," she said. "I rather like having you in my debt. I won your war for you, the least you could do is help me win mine."

He narrowed his eyes. He didn't like the way she spoke to him; few Nords had the courage to address him so casually, and to have a Dunmer presume such familiarity. No, he'd been fooled by those sullen-faced rats in the Grey Quarter. He'd forgotten that Morrowind had been the home of the Great Houses, and living gods. She was a throwback to a more glorious past; or she had lived it – she had streaks of grey in her otherwise ebon hair but he had no idea how old she really was.

"Where would you have me ride, Thane?"

"Not far. Whiterun. I have dusted off Dragonsreach, and it once again serves its original purpose."

"By the Nine. Those rumours were true?" That stirred his blood. A dragon, alive and captured.

"You should know most rumours about me are true by now."

Ulfric didn't think she'd heard _all_ the rumours about her. And him. He'd rather keep it that way.

"I would speak with this dragon," he said. Nothing less would have tempted him to follow her. "Do we need soldiers?"

"If it would make you feel safer, my Jarl." She managed to make that phrase into a subtle insult, every time.

They tried to persuade him to take someone, but after that barb he refused all offers of help, and ordered his horse saddled and made ready. It took longer than he expected; ever since the battle for Solitude everything was taking longer than expected. His political enemies stalled for time – pointlessly – and suddenly his opinion was sought on everything.

He knew where she'd be; deliberately losing large quantities of coin in the New Gnisis Cornerclub, which her fellow dark elves would then spend the next week spending and enjoying their sudden, if temporary, rise in status. It irritated him greatly, and he sent someone off to fetch her. The messenger was no sooner out of sight than she stepped from the shadows of the stables, which irritated him even more, although he kept his face impassive.

"Shall we?"

The night was cold and clear, the moons above flooding the landscape with such radiance that it might have been daylight, the shadows sharp and black and the fallen snow pale and luminescent. Ulfric breathed in air sword-sharp with frost and smelling of pine. It made a change from the smoke and heat of the Hall, and he felt the cobwebs in his mind swept away. He realised, no matter what lay at the other end, he would enjoy this ride.

Drade draped herself in a wolf-skin travelling cloak, and without a further word between them, they took to the road. Their horses' hooves rang on the cobbles and Ulfric slitted his eyes against the slipstream.

"Is there a hurry?" he called.

"Oh yes. The souls of your countrymen are the stakes."

Nevertheless, they had to slow and let their horses pick their way more carefully as the road grew steep.

"You should do something about the Grey Quarter," Drade said. "It's a slum. Riften does better than Windhelm and it's run by criminal gangs. It's not a good look, my Jarl."

"Perhaps it is the Dunmer who thrive naturally in a city run by criminal gangs."

She canted her head and fixed him with a cool, appraising stare. He was passingly familiar with it and could never work out if she was mentally undressing him or putting his head on a pike. Given the context, he suspected it was the latter.

At least she didn't press the point.

"You don't make friends, do you?" he asked.

"Why should I?"

"Someday Skyrim is going to decide you're more trouble than you're worth."

"Skyrim's weathered worse than I. Why, Jarl Ulfric, are you going to decide I'm more trouble than I'm worth?"

"No," he said, after a few moments thought. "You don't cause me trouble. My objections to you are entirely personal."

"I'm honoured."

Their conversation ended then, as they crested a rise and saw Whiterun and Dragonsreach rising up from the plain below. Despite the late hour, Dragonsreach was ablaze with light. It was all downhill from here, and they dug their heels into their horses' sides.

Drade drove her animal hard, and Ulfric was obliged to also, just to keep up. When they arrived at Whiterun's gates, both horses were streaked with sweat, their flanks heaving great gusts of steam into the cold air. The guard pulled the gate open for Drade and nearly let it swing shut again in sheer surprise when he recognised Ulfric. Somehow the news of their arrival preceded them, and they were greeted by a small crowd.

"I'll fetch the Jarl," someone offered.

"No need," Drade said. "Just take us to the dragon."

Ulfric was grateful; he wasn't interested in politics or formalities tonight; the ride over had roughened the edges which had become smoothed since his victory, and something of Drade's urgency had infected him. Her boots rang as they were led into the presence of the dragon.

"You return." Ulfric had never heard the dragonspeech from a Dov before. He refused to look awed.

"Odahviig," Drade said. "This is Ulfric Stormcloak, soon to be High King of Skyrim."

The dragon could barely move in its restraints, but nevertheless it turned its head and regarded Ulfric with one eye.

"Why should I care for a mortal king? A mortal not yet king?" the dragon asked.

"Because I know your tongue, Dragon," Ulfric said.

"Two Dovahkiin?"

"No," Drade said. "He learned your speech the hard way. A worthy second, I should think. Will you take us both to Sovngarde?"

Odahviig shifted slightly, indifferently, "It matters not to me, Dovahkiin."

"Sovngarde?" Ulfric asked, in mortal speech this time.

"Alduin hides there, growing fat on the souls of your honoured dead. So I will hunt him there, Odahviig will take us to where he gains entry."

"You're proposing we ride a dragon into Sovngarde?"

Drade looked slightly put out for the first time, "Well, yes. More or less."

Ulfric pretended to think about it, but as soon as the words had left her lips, his duty was clear. A High King would defend Skyrim; in this world or any other. He would not be worthy of the throne if he turned back now.

"And if we fail," he said, "Our spirits will not have to travel far."

"Yours won't maybe," Drade pointed out. "But I don't intend to die." She raised her voice. "Release the dragon! Do it!"

There was hesitation, shuffling and worried looks.

"She gave you an order," Ulfric said calmly.

The ropes were severed and Odahviig shook himself free of his bonds.

"Are you ready?" Drade asked him.

"I'll never be ready for something like this. Let's go."

Drade climbed up onto Odahviig's back, and Ulfric followed, grabbing the at the creature's spikes as it started to move. Drade glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes alight with excitement, and a smile on her lips entirely free of cynicism and superciliousness. He grinned back.

The sun was cresting the eastern mountains when Odahviig took to the air. He heard Drade gasp as the ground and Dragonsreach fell away beneath them, and they spiralled up into the clouds. The sun shone brightly on the highest peaks, and Skyrim spread out beneath them like a patchwork quilt, some parts still deep in the shadow of the mountains, the lakes and streams shining like silver.

His heart ached from the sheer beauty of it, even if he'd left his stomach back in Whiterun. If he died, he would still be grateful for having lived to see this sight.

Odahviig banked, and the great wings beat down on the cold morning air.

Drade spread her arms and laughed.

Ulfric rather wished it would never end.

But it did, and they landed, and once more he drew his axe in anger, and Drade breathed fire and her blades danced, and Sovnguarde and Alduin awaited them.

When they stumbled onto the snow at the Throat of the World, he watched Drade talk to the dragons as they said their farewells. When they had gone, their voices echoing among the clouds, he stepped forward.

"I have misjudged you," he said.

"I doubt that," she said, turning her gaze from the sky to him. "Don't make me into something I'm not."

"You are Dragonborn. You saved everything."

"I had some help."

He shook his head, "You will walk among the heroes of Sovngarde."

"Will I? I didn't see too many Dunmer there." A shadow fell across her face, and her smile looked forced for once. "I'm not sure I'd want to spend eternity drinking Nord mead anyway."

"Drade," he put his hands on her shoulders. "Should the day come when you find yourself at the gates of Sovngarde and you are failed to be recognised, call for me. I swear I will not let them deny you your rightful place among the dragonslayers."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise, and nodded, apparently struck speechless.

He dropped his hands and sighed, "I shall do something about the Grey Quarter. You are always welcome to return and make sure I've kept my word."

"Let's worry about getting back down first, Jarl Ulfric."

"Lead on. You know the path better than I."


	4. Erdi

A/N: All these stories have been written from a male point of view so far. Time for a change. Erdi was the first NPC I met that I really wanted to take along even though I couldn't, possibly because I'm terribly weak to being asked. I hadn't bothered with a follower at all until Roggi asked (see Chapter 2 for details) and I would have taken Erdi along in a heartbeat, even though I suspect she wouldn't have been much use.

* * *

Erdi was used to seeing Imperials; they were everywhere now, especially since the assassination. They made her feel safe; they were going to look after the Jarl, look after all of them.

The woman with the close-cropped hair who arrived in Solitude one breezy afternoon was not a soldier, although she carried a sword. She was no soldier's wife either, no haughty Imperial putting up with the Provinces until her spouse got a promotion. She was an adventurer, clearly, like something out of a storybook, or the tales Erdi spent her spare septims on coaxing from the bards.

She smelled of horses and steel. Freedom.

She paid no attention to Erdi when she walked past; she was here to see the Jarl, but not twenty minutes later she was back, walking more slowly, taking time to examine the rich decorations that Erdi spent three hours every day keeping immaculate.

"Hello," she said, and Erdi nearly dropped her dusting cloth.

"Oh, hello," she said. Say something, anything. "Do you need a partner?"

"What?"

Oh Divines why did I say that? I have to keep going now, "Just picture it. Two women, the dusty road, strapping men at every tavern, a fortune in gold to be claimed..." she trailed off, feeling a blush rising in her cheeks.

The Imperial stared at her for a few moments and then threw her head back and gave a rich laugh. "That's the spirit. What can you do?"

"Well, I can cook and clean," she began. "Oh, I could keep your blades sharp, like I do in the kitchen. I can mend your clothes, and I've got a mean right hook." She demonstrated on empty air. "No drunken lout has ever pinched _my_ behind twice."

"Well, I could always use a squire, and some company. I'm leaving Solitude tomorrow at dawn. Be at the stables if you want to come with me. I'm Florence by the way, but people call me Flick."

"Flick?" What an odd name.

Flick just winked and strolled out.

That night there was a huge to-do in the palace, as it was discovered that some gold and books had been stolen. All the servants were rounded up and Falk shouted at them. Then everyone's room was searched and when that didn't turn up anything useful, the steward shouted at them again. With her eyes stinging, Erdi packed her savings, a copper necklace, two spare dresses and one fur cap into a satchel and hurried out of the castle. They'd suspect she was the thief now but she didn't care; opportunity had knocked, and her destiny awaited.

Flick was staying at the Winking Skeever and was easy to find, although when Erdi arrived she wasn't in her room. Erdi sat outside the door, waiting for her to return, and eventually fell asleep. When she woke up, Flick was standing over her and she could smell breakfast cooking downstairs.

"Oh dear," Flick said. "Am I to take it you've made your decision?"

The town was still mostly asleep when they left; only guards patrolled the cold streets, and the grass was still gleaming with dew.

Flick saddled her own horse when they were outside the city.

"No need to wake them up," she said. "They work hard enough as it is." Erdi secured her satchel and Flick helped her up onto the back of the horse. "Hold on tight," she advised.

She dug her heels into the horse's sides and they were off. The cold morning air whistled past Erdi's ears and whipped her hair back from her face. She glanced over her shoulder at Solitude for one last look.

She was so happy she felt like her heart would burst.

It didn't last of course. That sort of joy was too big to live for long in one heart, human or mer, and adventuring was hard work. Erdi was no stranger to hard work, and she uncomplainingly cooked meals, cleaned armour, sharpened swords, brushed the horse, washed their clothes and picked armfuls of herbs. But Flick was determined to teach her other skills too, and Erdi found herself holding her breath as she skinned and butchered animals, and her eyes watering as she made potions.

But even that she didn't mind too much, even though every night she tumbled into her bedroll with an aching back and arms and slept as if dead.

Adventuring was dangerous work. Flick didn't ask Erdi to accompany her when she ventured into a cave or tomb, but when she huddled alone, her dagger clutched in white-knuckled hands, waiting for Flick to return, Erdi almost wished she had. Often it would grow dark, and Erdi would hear wolves howling, or worse, and every moment she feared that Flick had met her end in the caverns below.

She always returned however, sometimes bloody and beaten and sometimes much later than she'd intended.

"That was bigger than I thought," was all she usually said. Then they'd go through the spoils, and Erdi would be set the task of counting coin and polishing jewels. But oh, what jewels. Flick gave her a small cut of her takings, and Erdi comforted herself by imagining what she could buy in exchange for the gleaming stones.

And then there were the nights they weren't on the road. They stayed at many inns, and it was then Erdi got a night off to relax. Only it was hard to relax when people were drunkenly carousing below. Flick seemed to find the whole thing funny, but Erdi missed the refinement and reserve of Solitude.

And there was a distinct lack of strapping adventurers that weren't either reeking of mead, in their dotage, or face-first in the nearest serving wrench's bosom.

"I thought we'd find handsome adventurers living in castles," she confided one evening, over the background roar of some kind of drinking contest.

"Oh honey, if you want a man in a castle you'll have to marry a Jarl," Flick said with some amusement. "Or a Jarl's guard. Save up and buy your own castle, is my motto."

But she could cope; the mornings were still crisp, the landscapes still moved her, and Flick's sly jokes still made her laugh.

And then one day Flick opened her mouth and nothing was ever the same.

She shouted, and the leaves on the trees quivered and Erdi clapped her hands to her ears and shrunk back, and the dragon that had been circling overhead, high above the pines, landed with a crash on the forest floor. The battle seemed to last a lifetime. Erdi found herself running, the heat from the dragon's breath at her back, and the smoke from the smouldering vegetation in her eyes. Eventually she found a cave, and fear – and Flick's homemade poison – gave her the strength to defeat the wolves sheltering within it.

When at last the forest grew silent, Erdi ventured out into the gathering dusk. A thin column of smoke rose from the trees and Erdi followed it back to its source. She found the horse hiding in a strand of trees and she grabbed its reigns and coaxed it back, its ears twitching unhappily.

Flick was standing before the dragon's skeleton, blade in one hand and shield on her other arm.

"Flick," Erdi called softly. "Are you all right?"

She turned and heaved a sigh when she saw Erdi. "I'm glad you're all right." She looked at her battered and bloody blade for a moment before sheathing it. "I suppose it's time to stop playing around."

"You shouted," Erdi said. "You're the dragonborn."

Flick shrugged, "That's what they call me. I must admit I was rather hoping the whole thing would go away."

They travelled a bit further to get away from the smoke and the body of the dragon before making camp. While Flick tended to her injuries, Erdi prepared dinner. At least, until she found herself weeping salty tears into the soup.

"Erdi?" Flick looked up.

"Ugh, I'm sorry." She got to her feet, wiping her eyes as she stumbled away from the camp. Stupid, stupid girl.

She wanted to run away, she could hear Flick getting to her feet to follow her, but her fear of what might lurk beyond the firelight kept her in the clearing, her head bowed as she tried not to cry.

"This isn't like you, what's wrong?" Flick asked.

"I can't do this," Erdi said. "I can't kill _dragons_. I had no idea – I thought we would collect a few bounties or explore some ruins, but you're the Dragonborn and I'm just...I'm not brave, I'm not strong. I don't want to die."

"Neither do I," Flick said. "Why do you think I've been avoiding all of this. But there's not going to be much left of Skyrim if I don't try and do something. But I don't expect you to kill dragons."

"I feel like I failed you, after all the time you spent looking after me and teaching me things."

Flick frowned for a few moments, "Come back to the fire before the soup burns. And do your hair; there's someone I'd like you to meet."

"What, tonight?" Erdi asked. "Out here?"

"You'll see."

Intensely curious, Erdi did as she was bid. She washed her face and combed her hair, and even put on her old copper necklace.

"Now what?" she asked, wondering if Flick was going to reveal some kind of magic.

Flick grinned and rummaged through the saddle-bags before producing an object wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped it with a flourish and held it up.

Erdi rolled her eyes, "That's just my reflection, Flick. That's a very nice mirror though."

"When was the last time you looked at your reflection?" she asked. "Go on, look closer."

She handed the mirror over and Erdi stared into it. She looked older. Her hair was sun bleached, and she didn't look as gaunt or pale as she once had. When she looked, really looked, she realised she hardly recognised herself. Something of the horizon was reflected in her eyes; the road had left its mark on her, older, wiser, stronger. She smiled and forgave herself a little.

She went to hand the mirror back but Flick shook her head. "Think of it as a house warming present for your castle."

Erdi was not woken by Flick's gentle prodding, but by the sound of birdsong. The sun was above the horizon and the fire was cold. The horse was grazing nearby but Flick had gone, taking most of the valuables with her. Erdi sat up and looked about, listening to the sounds of nature around her.

She pulled on her boots, kicked sand over the fire pit just in case and saddled up. The day was still young, and a short way down the slope the road stretched on.

* * *

A/N: This was originally going to be femslashy but it didn't turn out like that. Maybe next time.


	5. Brelyna Maryon

A/N: I'm not sure if anyone's reading these, but if you are, I hope you enjoy it. I'm finding writing these stories terribly addictive. Every time I write one I think of two other NPCs to potentially write about.

* * *

He wasn't at the memorial service. They held the ceremony inside, away from the curious and shell-shocked view of the townspeople of Winterhold. Now more than ever they needed the populace to believe the College was strong and would protect them, and so they mourned in private. Brelyna didn't even know if they'd informed anyone other than the Jarl.

Sadly, too many would celebrate the deaths of mages, even two such honourable ones as Mirabelle Ervine and Sarvos Aren.

Brelyna couldn't blame him for skipping out on the speeches; as befitted an institute of higher learning, everyone had something to say and they said it at length. Given the solemn nature of the occasion, there was no moderator there to give them a gentle nudge to wind it up after ten minutes.

But the final prayers? Why wasn't he there for them? Brelyna found herself looking around, craning her neck to see if that gaunt, golden visage was haunting any of the shadows in the corners of the room.

"What are you looking for?" J'zargo purred in her ear.

"Have you seen Arty?" she whispered back. "He should be here. He-" She didn't want to think about it. But she knew he should have attended, and she was obscurely angry that he hadn't.

In the end, she didn't cry. It wasn't seemly for a Telvanni descendent to be too emotional at times like this. Onmund did; big fat tears that he palmed against his face, and others did besides, those who had known the dead better.

Brelyna was glad when it was over, and the three students returned to the Hall of Attainment.

"You know," J'zargo said. "When Khajiit die, we celebrate their lives. With a party."

"You go ahead," Onmund said. "I might go to bed early. Maybe things will look better in the morning."

Brelyna simply shook her head; she wasn't in the mood for a party either.

By the next morning, news of Artino's disappearance had spread. The College was quiet; classes had been suspended, and everyone was encouraged to write home. Those people whose families still talked to them should let them know they were all right.

Brelyna heard the phrase 'understandable' and 'time to mourn' passed about from one mage to the next whenever Artino's name was mentioned. But the reassuring looks never seemed to reach their eyes. No one was prepared to step up and take the Archmage's vacant seat – something Brelyna suspected was a first in the College's history.

They were waiting for Artino. The dashing boy-wonder who swept in and whose discovery started this whole business. Onmund was unnervingly awkward and J'zargo treated everything like it was a contest, but Artino was kind. Approachable. When she used him as a test subject, and then watched in horror as her spells went wrong he just laughed it off. And then he'd told her it was her turn to help, and she'd accompanied him on a dozen field expeditions.

He knew what she'd gone through; as an Altmer from a good family he'd been expected to be a great mage, although the Thalmor were why he'd left, not the weight of his family's gaze. They studied together and discussed ideas, and he'd listened, always, to what she had to say.

And she'd fallen for him, untidy hair and bony hands and ink stains and all. She wanted them to be in the College forever. She started to read up on teaching, not just learning. He liked teachers.

He liked Mirabelle.

Brelyna hadn't noticed at first. Or rather, she'd thought his admiration an intellectual one. Mirabelle was not an elf, and adjusting for their species, she was a great deal older than Artino. But he never missed a single one of her lectures, and he followed her around like an eager puppy, peppering her with questions as she strode the halls of the College, patiently answering them. He always had a shy smile and a friendly word to offer her when they met.

One rainy night in the library, Brelyna realised she'd lost.

"I don't want to leave when I graduate," Artino said, leafing through a book on training apprentices. "I want to stay here and teach, as equals with the other lecturers." His gaze strayed then to Mirabelle, who was discussing something with the librarian, and Brelyna realised it was hopeless.

She scowled at her oblivious friend. She wanted to chastise him for basing his entire career plans around chasing someone who hadn't shown the slightest interest anyway.

And then she'd bit her lip, looking down at the book in her lap. Hadn't she been doing the exact same thing?

She tried to make some space then, but events did the job better than she could have; the anomalies, the staff, and of course the terrible events that surrounded the final defeat of Ancano, had overshadowed all else.

Three days after the memorial service, Brelyna was woken by some large, snuffling thing attacking her face. She sat up with a scream, and frost dancing over her hands.

It was Gruff, Artino's dog. Gruff had been a stray that had taken to following him about, and Artino encouraged the creature by feeding it all kinds of things. Thus it had developed a taste for crème treats and Brelyna watched as the one on her nightstand disappeared into the creature's slobbering mouth.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

Gruff obviously couldn't answer, and he curled up on her rug. His fur was damp; she could smell that much. He'd been outside. For a moment she wondered if Artino had returned, and she threw off the blankets and hurriedly dressed to go and look for him.

In vain. He wasn't in the College.

When she returned to the hall, Onmund was giving Gruff belly rubs and making him roll over in exchange for cheese.

"Arty's not here," she said, folding her arms. "Why is Gruff here then?"

"He sends Gruff home sometimes," Onmund said. "When he thinks he's going somewhere too dangerous for a dog."

"Oh, Nerevar. You're right. Gruff!"

The dog raised its head hopefully.

"Can you find Arty for me? Find Artino. Find."

Gruff barked.

"I'm getting my staff." Brelyna said. "I've had enough of this. I'm going to find him."

Brelyna was not an adventurer. If she hadn't been enamoured of Artino she would have told him the debt was paid and refused to follow him down into any more caves long ago. She preferred her books and a warm fire to constant immanent danger and exposure to the elements. But a mage has to do what a mage has to do.

"Do you want any help?" Onmund asked as she threw potions and scrolls into her satchel.

"No, it's fine. You stay here and cover for me if classes resume." She was sure she was the only one who knew about Mirabelle and she wanted to keep Artino's secret if she possibly could.

With Gruff at her side, she left Winterhold. The dog seemed confident in the way it foraged on ahead, and she did hope it wouldn't lead her to a dead mammoth or something.

Gruff led her south along the road, and Brelyna was forced to hurry to keep up, scared she'd lose the dog in the whirling flakes of snow that was normal Winterhold weather. Her boots crunched on the snow.

Soon after setting out an Argonian appeared, demanding her valuables. Brelyana asked him politely to leave her alone, and then she froze him solid when he refused. Artino had taught her how to handle worse than that.

Eventually Gruff veered off the road, bounding through the snowdrifts and barking excitedly. His destination was a low, stone building, one of the ancient places that dotted Skyrim's landscape. Brelyna called the dog back; those places were dangerous and Artino would never forgive her if she got Gruff hurt.

She had to hope she was enough of a mage to not let herself get hurt either.

When she got closer, she could see a light flickering within. Maybe someone was home? She unhooked her staff and held it before her, defensively.

She stifled a scream when she nearly fell over the corpse half buried in the snow near the entrance. It was a burly Nord, not Artino. She breathed a sigh of relief, made fierce 'be quiet' faces at Gruff, and edged inside.

She couldn't hear the creaking of animated bones, which was something. Aside from the crackle and smell of a fire, she couldn't hear much at all. She crept closer, watching the firelight on the stone wall ahead of her for shadows. She shifted her grip on her staff, and risked peering around the corner.

"Show yourself!" Fire rippled along Artino's fingers and his lips were pulled back in a snarl.

"Arty!" Brelyna raised her staff and cast a protective ward. "It's me."

Gruff barged past her and wagged its tail at its master. Artino lowered his hands.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you, obviously. Everyone's been worried sick."

His shoulders dropped and he sighed and perched on a crate. Now she had a chance, Brelyna looked around the room. It was homey, sort of, and there was an alchemist's table in the corner.

"What is this place?"

"Just a place. I think an alchemist was here before the guy who tried to kill me. He probably killed him. Look, I'm fine, you can go back and tell them so."

"You are clearly not fine. This is not the place someone who is fine would choose to...what? Go on holiday at? Or are you planning on living here?"

"Of course not. Leave me alone. I just," he buried his face in his hands. "It's all my fault she'd dead."

Brelyna leant her staff against the wall and went to his side. She knelt and tried to peer into his face.

"It's not your fault, Arty. Everyone knows that. You did your best. You saved the rest of us and the College. They want to make you Archmage."

Instantly she knew it had been a mistake to mention it. Artino made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.

"That's traditional at least; whoever nobbles the last Archmage gets the job."

She sighed, "Arty, it's been days. You look awful. Do you have anything to eat here? Or have a bath in? Come home. You don't have to give them an answer, just let them know you're around."

"Why?" He lowered his hands and gazed at her with reddened eyes. "The College is not going to grind to a halt without me. They'll find someone else."

"Eventually. In the meantime with dragons in the skies and vampires in the streets the College is going to be rudderless and incapable of defending itself, let alone helping anyone else."

Artino just scowled. Brelyna decided it wasn't worth pushing it for now.

"Let me make you something to eat," she said. All she could find were a lot of herbs and a chunk of skeever tail. "I can't believe you were planning on eating this," she said, digging through her back. "I brought supplies."

Artino didn't respond. He sat in a melancholy heap staring at the fire, while Brelyna busied herself toasting cheese and tomato sandwiches over the fire.

"Eat," she commanded, when the first of them were ready. "You can have the first slices." Gruff got the skeever tail.

"Mirabelle wouldn't want you to do this," Brelyna ventured, after they'd finished eating.

"How dare you use her name like that!"

"Why not? You know I'm telling the truth."

"Are you? She barely noticed me. I was just another undergraduate underfoot."

Brelyna couldn't believe she was trying to defend Mirabelle, "That's not true. Everyone in the College knows you're a great mage. You've uncovered so much in your short time here. She had to know and respect that."

"I feel like such a fool. I had it all planned out and now what? Pining like some child over a woman who could never possibly be interested in me."

"How do you think I feel?" Brelyna said quietly.

"You've always been there for me, haven't you? You even ventured out to find me, I wonder how far you would have gone? Brelyna, I'm sorry. Maybe it was in front of me all along." He leaned towards her.

Brelyna had never seen anyone visibly lower their standards for her before. Her eyes blazed and before she'd even consciously decided on it, she raised her hand and smacked Artino across the face, as hard as she could.

"Wha?" He held his cheek in utter confusion as she leaped to her feet.

"You are a child," she said. "And in no way fit to be Archmage. You know...absolutely nothing about anything!" She tried to halt the words, but they were tumbling out too fast. "You'll never be Aren. No one will. He's dead, and I don't know what to do. And you don't know what to do. And they _hate_ mages here, and they hate Dunmer here, and I'm _scared_!"

Artino was silent for a while, as Brelyna caught her breath.

"I'm sorry," he said eventually. "Can we be friends again? I really do appreciate everything that you've done."

She nodded. Outburst over, she just felt a bit silly. "I'll always be your friend."

He got to his feet, brushing breadcrumbs off his robe. "If I go back, I don't know what to do. You'll help me, right?"

"Arty," she took his hand. "We'll all help you. And if they don't, as Archmage you can always boot them," she joked. It won her a faint smile. "You don't have to do anything alone."

He shrugged, looking as gangly and awkward as she'd ever seen him, and not the repository of powerful magic she knew him to be.

"Is it still snowing out there?" he asked.

"Of course it is. Did you want to wait?"

"No, we could be here for months if we did that. Let's go home."

* * *

A/N: My first mage character was keeping an eye out for an amulet of Mara to show Mirabelle someday. In the end, he never married anyone.


	6. Jenassa

A/N: This chapter contains sexual content. If that is not your thing, maybe wait for the next story. Otherwise, enjoy.

* * *

Laka didn't pay for rooms now, she paid for entire floors. She'd walk into an inn and let her money do the talking for her. Jenassa was no stranger to hardship, but she appreciated luxuries; warm beds and fresh mead, and Laka spent money like it was water. So they were left alone with platefuls of food and a roaring fire, and instructions to summon the barmaid if they needed anything, anything at all.

Jenassa didn't think they did. She sat at the table picking at buttered salmon and potatoes, while Laka sprawled on the rug in front of the fire, working her way through a plate of sweetrolls. The Bosmer loved sweets; Jenassa had watched her steal them from every corner of Skyrim, from the bedsides of sleeping babes and from under the noses of the chefs who'd baked them.

She'd once said to her, "The Nords are a big, stupid people with a death wish, but they have some fine bakers among them."

Jenassa put her booted feet on the table and leaned back in her chair, idly dangling a bottle of mead from one hand. This was the life.

"Do you remember that Half-Moon place?" Laka asked, breaking the comfortable silence. "The mill with the vampires?"

"Yes."

Laka licked her finger and used it to pick up crumbs from the plate. "They told me it was going to be so difficult. Two vampires they said. Living among humans." Jenassa watched her roll her eyes. "They lived on a lonely farm in the middle of nowhere. She goes out to feed the chickens, he gets a knife in his neck. Piece of cake."

"Do you think it was wise leaving the woman alive?" Jenassa asked. "She had to know we were responsible. She might come after us for revenge."

Laka sat up, and her teeth gleamed as she smiled, "Let her. It's a risk I'm willing to run. If I wasn't I'd hunt deer, not men and mer."

Given the choice, Jenassa would not have left the woman alive – or undead, as the case may be, but once the words were out of Laka's mouth, she could see the art in it, feel the thrill of turning the vampire, mad for revenge, from predator into prey. She smiled at Laka, forever grateful for the twist of fate that had brought her into the Drunken Huntsman. Once they'd met, it had seemed inevitable that they would travel together as kindred souls, the five hundred septims merely a formality that had to be observed. She had earned that much a half dozen times over merely from the armour and weapons that Laka had shared with her.

Money mattered little to Jenassa, and despite the fact that she spent a great deal of time up to her elbows in other peoples' it didn't seem to matter that much to Laka either. As long as she could afford to see them live lavishly tonight, the rest mattered not.

Jenassa sighed. Skyrim had been a lonely place until Laka had strolled into it.

"You know, if you were a man, you'd be perfect."

Laka narrowed her eyes. "What does that mean?" she asked sharply, and Jenassa realised she'd made a tactical error.

"I didn't mean to imply-"

"Are you saying a man could kill better than I?" She gracefully unwound and got to her feet.

"Ha! Hardly."

"Would he be lighter on his feet?" She stepped forward, her eyes gleaming.

"No."

"Faster on the draw?" Her fingers touched the hilt of her dagger and with a flick it sailed past Jenassa's ear, burying itself in the wall somewhere behind her.

"No."

"Nimbler fingers?" She was still stalking towards Jenassa, like a large, lithe cat. Not the Sabres of Skyrim but something sleeker, sultrier. Jenassa sensed the shift in atmosphere, and subtle tension that ran through her; a note that had been ringing in the background now restruck, bringing attention to itself.

A smile curved Laka's lips. She didn't look angry any more; she'd found something amusing or interesting written on Jenassa's face. She flicked at her leather armour, Jenassa couldn't quite see with the firelight at Laka's back.

"A lighter touch?" She brushed one finger over the toe of Jenassa's boot and trailed it up her leather-clad leg as she slunk to her side.

"I..." Jenassa honestly couldn't quite remember what the question was, and the words stuck in her throat.

That teeth-flashing smile again. It usually meant a punchline or someone's swiftly-approaching death. She leaned down and breathed into Jenassa's ear.

"Easier on the eyes?" She'd undone the catches on her armour, and it fell open to her naval as she leaned over, Jenassa's gaze was drawn to those collarbones, and the modest, enticing swell of the skin below them. She looked back into Laka's eyes, finding mischief and challenge within them.

Jenassa swung her feet off the table, and reached for Laka. The Bosmer stepped out of the way with a laugh that turned into a hiss of surprise as the Dunmer stepped up, whip fast, out of the chair, and tugged Laka's jacket off over her shoulders.

Laka leaped on her. Despite the fact there was only a couple of inches difference between them in height, Jenassa found Laka climbing her like a tree, her legs wrapped around her waist and her teeth at her ear. She smelled like wood smoke and leather and blood. Jenassa staggered under the sudden weight, trying to catch herself before they fell. Laka laughed, and flung her weight backwards.

"Watch out!" Jenassa put her arms out and caught them, just, as they tumbled to the floor. Her wrist twinged. "That was stupid," she said, realising the sudden chill on her chest and stomach was due to Laka having undone her own armour; and she hadn't even noticed.

Laka was grinning and wiggling away from her, towards the rug, probably, and Jenassa realised that this was not a game. She didn't want it to be. She wanted the beautiful, slightly scarred creature that was leaving her jacket behind like a second skin. She couldn't help reaching out and touching that smooth pale stomach. It wasn't enough to touch, she wanted to stroke, and she did so, and her fingers weren't enough and she pressed her lips and teeth and tongue against Laka's stomach. She tasted salt. She could hear a heartbeat.

Boots should have come next, but the belt was too tempting.

Laka made an exasperated sound and Jenassa found herself grabbed under the arms and hauled unceremoniously over the Bosmer and onto the rug, rolled expertly until Laka was sitting astride her with a triumphant look. She folded her arms and Jenassa stared at the way the linen that bound her chest tented over her nipples.

She groaned in frustration when it was clear Laka was expecting something. "What?"

"Say it."

"Say what?" She tried to wring an answer from her lust-addled mind. "I'm sorry, all right? I was wrong, you're perfect."

Laka unfolded her arms and placed her hands either side of Jenassa's head. She felt a few strands of gold hair brushing her face as Laka spoke softly, "I think we are two of the same kind, you and I. I'm glad to have met you."

Jenassa recognised her own words as Laka pressed her mouth against hers.

She tasted sweet.

And then they pulled themselves free of their leathers, and Laka tossed her head and dug her fingernails into Jenassa's shoulder as she slowly discovered what made her moan, and then faster what made her yell. And Laka called her a peach, although she had never tasted a peach, and licked her fingers and left bite marks on her thigh and they coiled and tasted and laughed, low and throaty until the fire died down to coals. They'd forgotten to feed it, sated themselves.

Laka was warm, her gold hair spread across Jenassa's chest, their legs tangled, feet hanging over the edge of the rug. Going to bed seemed like a lot of effort, and Jenassa was considering asking Laka's opinion of the idea when they both stiffened slightly, awake.

"Did you hear that?" Laka breathed.

"Mm. A voyeur or an assassin, do you think?"

She felt Laka move slightly, and heard a scrape as a blade was drawn from its sheath.

"I don't know," she could hear soft delight in Laka's voice. "It doesn't matter. I'll be right back."

* * *

A/N: My first attempt at femslash. Be kind, but honest. Not all the Dovahkiin I write about are characters I've actually played, but Laka is. She and Jenassa have been inseparable the entire game; they just work very well together. They even have the same hairstyle, by pure coincidence.


	7. Faendal

A/N: Well, the gender ratio's evened out but I notice I'm writing from NPC perspectives mostly, so here's one from the Dovahkiin's point of view. Although, to be honest, I can't see this one saving Skyrim any time soon.

* * *

"Hmm. _Hmm,_" Anthadan hummed meaningfully over the map. Two steps behind him, Faendal sighed. Around them forest luxuriated in a rare, warm morning. Birds fluttered above them, insects hummed, butterflies danced, and Anthadan could practically taste all the game that even now was gambolling through Skyrim's cold forests. Just waiting for his arrows.

"How about Falkreath?" he tried again. "Have you been there before?"

His fellow Bosmer finally answered, "Yes."

"Well, I haven't. According to the map it's in the middle of the forest. It'll be teeming with game. Maybe even find that dragon."

"Maybe."

He glanced over his shoulder, but Faendal was staring resolutely up the hill at a pair of skylarks dancing above the pines. They walked on for a bit further, and the sun rose higher. Their packs were empty, their quivers were full, the weather was, for once, glorious, so why was the atmosphere so gloomy?

Anthadan knew he had to do something about it. He enjoyed Faendal's company; to find such a competent and agreeable hunting companion had been an unbelievable stroke of luck, and he'd grown to count the man as a friend. Friends don't let friends sulk and ruin a hunting trip. His sighs were going to scare the deer at this rate.

Anthadan stopped. He heard Faendal's quiet footsteps halt as well.

"Look," he turned to face his friend, "if you really don't want to come along, I understand. Go back, I'll be fine. I'm probably not going to find that dragon anyway. I think it went west." Not that any of their westward hunting expeditions had turned up anything remotely resembling dragon tracks, spoor, or even wild stories. "If you'd rather stay with her in Riverwood, it's all right."

"What would be the point!?" Faendal burst out. It was uncharacteristic of the elf to be so loud and Anthadan looked startled. "It makes no difference to her if I'm there or not. I could fall in the river and she would only laugh."

"That's not true," Anthadan protested. "She's your friend."

Faendal sighed, "Yes, a friend. I thought things would be simpler with Sven out of favour."

"He's a dishonest oaf," Anthadan declared. "She's well rid of him."

Faendal just looked pained. He strode off the road and selected a rock to sit on. Now he looked even more miserable.

"What?" Anthadan prompted.

"I'm not much better. When I heard what he'd tried to do, I must admit for a moment I wish I'd thought of it first."

"Yeah, but you didn't. I'm not surprised you were tempted. If he'd selected a less scrupulous courier, or one who was more inclined to help out an overbearing Nord at the expense of a fellow Bosmer it might have even worked. But it didn't, and Camilla wants nothing to do with him."

"No," Faendal looked at Anthadan pointedly. "I have another rival now."

"Wait. What? Me?"

"Yes of course you! When you're there it's like I'm not even in the room. It's all 'It's a fine day with you around, Anthadan,' and 'I guess we're both outsiders here.'"

"Well..." He rubbed the back of his neck. It wasn't like he hadn't noticed the way the Imperial girl looked at him.

"She even called you handsome! Why don't you just marry her and be done with it!" He waved his arms at the sky.

"Just one moment. Have you, at any point in your matchmaking, considered my feelings in any of this? Maybe I don't _want_ to marry her. You're in love with her, of course you think she's the most enchanting vision in Tamriel, but I'm not." He huffed, "I see a passingly pretty but unremarkable human who is not to my taste."

"You just don't know her yet."

"Why are you trying to convince me? I haven't done or said a single thing to encourage her."

"I know." Faendal put his head in his hands. "That makes it worse. I can't even be angry at you; it's not your fault."

"Love clearly makes you miserable. And at the end of the day, what? It's still just us out here, not a woman in sight. We should be free of their influence, celebrate it."

Faendal raised his head and scowled, "You really are an idiot aren't you? Or have you honestly never been in love?"

"Honestly? Never," he said cheerfully. It wasn't something he was entirely against, but he had other things to do, important, dragon-hunting things. Love could wait, or it could get off its arse and find him; he was not looking for it.

"I still think you're an idiot. Only an idiot would watch a dragon defeat an entire platoon of Imperial troops and burn down a town, and decide he wants its head for his wall. You're lucky you haven't found it. You haven't even bothered to go Whiterun and tell the Jarl."

"What good can he do?" Anthadan shrugged. "He might send a handful of troops, but that didn't do Helgen any good. I'm more useful out here."

"What makes you think you can kill a dragon when Imperial archers couldn't dent its hide."

"Because they're Imperials. We're Bosmer. We were born with bows in our hands. I'll put an arrow right through the dragon's eye." He drew bead on an imaginary dragon, tracking it across the sky.

Faendal shook his head, "I really don't see what she sees in you. You're not even that good looking."

"What? Are you blind? Anthadan smoothed his hair back. "These cheekbones would make a Goddess weep. And this rump-"

"Please stop, I'm getting a headache."

Anthadan smirked. Faendal looked at him for a few moments, fought valiantly to keep a straight face, and then laughed and looked away.

"Well, you're funny, I'll give you that."

Their smiles faded and they contemplated the empty, sun-dappled road for a while in silence.

"Seriously," Faendal said. "What should I do? I don't want to lose her. Maybe I should resign myself to the fact that I'm not good enough for her. I should be lucky to count myself as her friend."

"That's a defeatist attitude. That's not going to slay us any dragons."

"You and your dragon obsession. I think you just enjoy mucking about. Ten septims says you've never had a proper job in your life."

Anthadan clicked his fingers, "Yes, you're right. I think you're onto something."

"What do you mean?" Faendal looked suspiciously at him.

"You know that claw we got back from Bleak Falls Barrow?"

"Yeah, I remember. You stood by some carvings and a swirly thing went into your head. It didn't seem to make you any smarter though."

"Yes, well, that was pretty strange. My point is, Camilla liked me a lot more after that."

"Of course she did, you got the claw back. Although I helped. You did mention that I helped, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes, but that's not the point. She didn't care about the claw; it belonged to her brother. I heard them arguing about it. She wanted to go and get it, and when I offered to help, she wanted to come with me, but her brother only let her go as far as the edge of town."

"What are you getting at?"

"She wants adventure! She wants to get out of Riverwood and that tiny shop. She likes me because I was happy to have her come along."

"But she's so beautiful, and refined," Faendal said.

Anthadan grabbed his collar and pulled him up so he could look him in the eye, "She's _bored_, Faendal. She wants excitement. You are perfectly placed to give it to her, no pun intended," he smirked. He let him go, "I'm not saying you have to take her to ruins or dungeons or anything, just offer to take her hunting as a good start. And if she wants to get her hands dirty, let her. But protect her. Be the man of adventure, and you'll never get rid of her."

Faendal frowned, "You really think that would work?"

"Make the offer, it couldn't hurt. Ten septims says she'll leap at it. And then she'll probably leap on you."

Faendal darkened under his tan, "Will you stop saying things like that? It's crude."

"But I hadn't even started on the hand gestures."

Faendal got to his feet, "You know, I'll give it a try." He shook Anthadan's hand, "Thank you my friend. I'll never forget the help you've given me. I'm forever in your debt."

"That's the spirit!" Anthadan waved him off as he started walking briskly back to Riverwood, whistling cheerfully.

A short while later, Anthadan looked about. He caught a flash of red as a fox darted through the undergrowth, too fast to take a shot at it. "So uh, I guess I'll go to Falkreath on my own."

There was no one there to answer him. He scowled, and set off down the road.

"Women. Nothing but trouble."

* * *

A/N: I didn't really like the Love Triangle quest. If you don't deliver the letter directly to Camilla, dishonestly or otherwise, and approach the other suitor instead, it turns out they're both dishonest jerks. But you don't have the option of showing Camilla both letters and telling her so. So in my headcanon whoever you see first is the dishonest jerk and the other one finds out about it later.

Faendal is a pretty good companion for a low level character; good natured and with decent skills, so he gets a bit of revisionism in his favour.


	8. Marcurio

She was Mjoll's new friend. Marcurio was haunting his favourite corner of the Bee and Barb when Mjoll arrived, her biggest fan in tow and with another woman. You couldn't ignore her. The floorboards threatened to snap under her, or rather, under the chunky Dwarven armour she wore.

Just great, he thought, another one.

He didn't have anything against Mjoll personally, but she spent all her time telling anyone who would listen what a terrible place Riften was, and while it wasn't exactly the Imperial City he was rather fond of the place. It had its flaws, but if she didn't like it she could always leave; not that anyone was game to say it to her face.

Her friend then. Redguard. Gleaming smile. Braided hair. Hard to tell under all that armour, but to carry it as easily as she did she had to be as strong as an ox. The sword on her back almost touched the ground. Mjoll seemed very happy for once, and Marcurio noticed a new sword on her belt, or perhaps an old one given the affectionate way she kept patting the hilt.

"I will get us some drinks," Mjoll said.

Her friend nodded.

Marcurio recognised Brynjolf approaching, presumably having spotted a new mark. Marcurio kept his distance when he could, and his eye on his coin purse when he couldn't. He didn't dislike the man, but wouldn't trust him as far as he could spit him.

"That's a lot of coin you're carrying, lass," he said. "I'll bet you didn't earn a septim of it honestly." He had a disarming smile on, one he'd probably learned from Marcurio himself.

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I might have work for one such as you."

A great gauntleted hand grabbed a fistful of Brynjolf's shirt and she slammed the man into the wall.

"Are you implying I would break the law?" she asked coldly. The bar didn't exactly fall silent, but it was clear everyone was watching the altercation.

"I...must have been mistaken," Brynjolf said. He didn't look afraid, just puzzled. Marcurio took a drink to hide his smirk. Serves you right, he thought, snake oil merchants deserved to get slapped down occasionally.

She'd caught him watching, and raised an eyebrow at him as she let Brynjolf go.

For lack of anything better, he made his pitch, "For a modest fee, I'll bring my formidable arcane powers to bear on your foes. What do you say?"

She laughed, and went off to join Mjoll at the bar. Meathead, he thought.

They were there all evening, swapping war stories. Sadly, they didn't start comparing scars. Several hours later, the Redguard approached him again.

"Are you really a wizard, or are you just blowing hot air?" she asked.

Mildly affronted by the question, he made lightning dance over his fingertips. "Satisfied?"

"Yeah. Stables at dawn." She dumped a bag of coins in his lap and went back to the bar to enquire about a room.

Marcurio was in no position to argue. The Nords' reluctance to deal with magic, or those who had skill in it, meant he didn't get all that many jobs. He was just lucky the mead was cheap, but it wasn't going to buy him passage back to Cyrodil. He weighted the bag in his hand. He had enough now, but the catch was going to be living to spend it. You didn't buy armour like that in a shop.

The next morning dawned cold and miserable, as they usually did in Skyrim, but at least Riften was warmer than most places. The lake hardly ever iced over entirely. Marcurio stumbled out of the Bee and Barb before the stallholders had even arrived for the day, but his employer was already waiting for him.

"By the way," she said, "my name's Della." She held out a hand, already encased in armour and Marcurio introduced himself and shook it. She didn't let go. "I have some questions for you, Imperial. As you may have noticed there's a war on. And I might be on a side you don't approve of. So let's get it out of the way now; if I tell you to set some Imperial troops on fire, what are you gonna do?"

He could feel the bones in his hand grinding together. He looked her in the eyes, noticing gold flecks in the brown.

"I'll set them on fire," he said evenly. "It's what you pay me for. Mercenaries have rules, you know."

She released him and smiled, "Good. Let's get going."

It wasn't a terribly auspicious start to their association.

Nevertheless, it became clear fairly early on that she needed someone like him, and that she knew it. He'd never seen anyone so fearless of injury; she waded into battle, sword swinging, and went toe-to-toe with things that would have given most ordinary people nightmares. But she needed someone to watch her back. She couldn't defend herself from all directions, although she did the best she could with the armour she wore. She needed to fight in close, and that wasn't always possible.

So he snaked his lightning past her, frying mages and archers and softening up more powerful foes. The first time they were ambushed by bandits half of them were dead by the time she'd dismounted and drawn her sword.

"Wow," she said, and grinned at him unashamedly impressed.

His heart felt one size too large then.

She defended him too, batting away creatures intent on ruining his good looks with a casual swing of her blade. It clearly wasn't enough.

"Armour?"

"You need it. This is good stuff. Heavy but not too heavy; belongs to the Blades but they didn't mind me borrowing it."

"Well, I'll give it a try. You're going to have to help," he said, picking it up and weighing it in his hands.

"Yes, yes, off with it then."

Obediently he peeled off his robe and she fussed and buckled and tied him into the armour, while he gave thanks that she hadn't asked him to take his pants off as well.

She stepped back and looked him over, up and down and back up again.

"Not bad," she said with a smirk.

He smoothed down his hair, "Of course not. What did you expect?"

"Do mercenaries really have rules?" she asked, one night while they were camping in the lee of yet another forbidding piece of abandoned Nord architecture. Safely, as they'd already cleaned and gutted the place earlier in the day.

"Well, yes." He fed another piece of wood onto the fire. "Not many, but a few. Sensible ones, mostly."

"Like what?"

"Well, follow orders. Don't steal from your employer. Don't work for more than one person at a time. Don't sleep with your employer."

She laughed, "What if you really love them?"

"Don't do that either. Uh, anyway that's it mostly. I mean, individuals like myself have things we won't do, like, I'm not going to fight guards, because that's pointless. But not all mercenaries worry about that."

"I see," she said thoughtfully. Then she rolled over and went to sleep while the wolves howled somewhere in the mountains.

Whiterun. When he found out she was a member of the Companions it made so much sense he kicked himself for not guessing earlier. He found himself in a whole roomful of people just like her, only without the friendliness outsiders showed to each other in Skyrim. He was mostly ignored, while she talked and laughed with the broadest Nord Marcurio had ever seen. She called him Vilkas.

And they were going hunting or something. Whatever it was, it was clear he was not invited.

"Companions' business," Della said with a shrug. "Thank you for your help."

"So you think you can make it on your own then. We'll see about that." He sounded childish, petulant, and he knew it. It wasn't a look he wore proudly and the expression of surprise on her face made him feel worse. But what's said was said, and he turned and walked out. She didn't call him back.

He had money to take him to Cyrodil, but he stopped at Riften, and he found himself back in the Bee and Barb. He told himself he just wanted a drink. Because he was miserable. Not miserable, just thirsty.

He looked up every time the door swung open, but the floorboards didn't creak. He'd forgotten about Cyrodil in the time he had travelled with Della; he found himself missing the smell of Nord tombs. And her laugh.

"You stuck to the rules," he toasted himself sarcastically. "Well done."

A week and a half later, she came back. Strolled in like she had been gone only a few minutes. Their eyes met, and she grinned.

He wanted to pretend it didn't matter, but he was out of his seat and he met her halfway across the room. He suspected he looked somewhat sheepish, but he couldn't stop smiling when he realised she wasn't sure he'd be waiting. And that she'd looked anyway.

"I knew you couldn't stay away," he said. "Admit it, you were lost without me."

"I did miss the smell of ozone at my back."

"I missed you. That is," he hurried on, "I've missed your gold. If you want a master of the arcane at your side, it won't be cheap."

"A master of the arcane," she said, amused. "I thought you were an apprentice wizard?"

"Well, officially apprentice, but you know from experience that I'm so much more."

She handed over the money without a murmur and they walked out into the late afternoon sunshine. His heart felt light.

They hunted dragons on mountain peaks, they delved deep into the earth, and Marcurio grew at ease in his armour. He could still barely lift hers, however.

And he realised he'd be happy enough to keep doing this forever. Forever was a word he had not associated with Skyrim before.

"Why did you leave Cyrodil?" she asked one day.

"Oh, you know," he said vaguely. "Why did you leave Hammerfell?"

"That's easy," she said. "I wanted adventure."

"I take it you got what you wanted," he said, feeling only slightly ashamed that he was avoiding the subject.

"I always get what I want. Well, mostly."

They were in the Reach, Della having spotted one of the ancient Dwarven cities built into the side of a mountain. The rocky crags soared above them as they hunted for the entrance. Without warning, the ground shook like a wet dog, and a great rumbling reverberated around the mountains.

They stumbled and slid on the grassy slope, and grabbed handfuls of earth to steady themselves.

"What was that?" Marcurio said, awestruck.

"I don't know. Something big." Her eyes were alight with curiosity. "Let's find out."

Marcurio had a bad feeling, but by now he was well used to ignoring it as Della forged on ahead. When they found the entrance to the ruin, the ground shook again.

"This whole mountain could come down on our heads," Marcurio observed gloomily.

"That would be unbelievably bad luck," Della said, pushing the door open with a screech. "I mean, it's remained standing this long, why would it fall down now?"

They found themselves in a dizzying labyrinth of subterranean walkways that stretched over watery abysses, great pipes that had once carried water or steam now burst and broken. Their boots clattered as they ran over them. Marcurio did his best not to look over the edge.

There were ghosts too, deadly warnings, and still the earth occasionally rumbled, but Della had caught the scent of something old and strange, and wouldn't have dreamt of turning back. And although he prided himself on remaining the level-headed one, Marcurio couldn't help but be eager too.

There was always a chance that he would find something that would clear his name, that would see him lauded and welcomed home as the brilliant, misunderstood, prodigal son.

Of course, Della did not fit convincingly into these dreams.

Before them stood a last, great door, the bones of those who'd tried to unlock it littering the area before it. They poured over the old journal, and searched the corpses for clues, but ultimately there was only so far that intellect could take them.

They sat on the ground, Marcurio making notes and Della staring up at the towering lock.

"There's nothing for it," she said. "We have to guess." Neither of them mentioned the possibility of just tuning back. Marcurio was just as eager to find out what lay beyond as she was.

"Do you think you could hit those chimes with your magic?"

"Do dragons fly?" he scoffed. "Just point me to the one you want rung first."

The first three went off without a hitch, but then their information ran out. They glanced at each other and then Marcurio flung his magic at one of the remaining chimes.

The ground shook with a dull roar. Marcurio was swept off his feet as Della tackled him, just as a chunk of rock detached itself from the ceiling. She braced herself above him, letting her armour bear the brunt of the rocks and pebbles that rained down around them. Further back behind them he could hear the rumble of breaking rock and the splash as it hit the water. Dust floated in the air.

And still it went on, until it felt like the very heart of the mountain had to be shaking loose. Over her shoulder, Marcurio could see more rocks falling and he flung up a ward.

Eventually, it stopped. Della shoved bits of rubble off them and wearily got to her feet before offering Marcurio a hand.

"Well," she said. "I guess it's the other one."

Marcurio was looking back the way they'd come. The long stone pathways had mostly collapsed.

"I hope we're not stuck here," he said.

"Get this lock open. Maybe there is a way out on the other side."

There wasn't, although another piece of the mystery did fall into their hands, and then into Della's satchel.

"Come on," she said, wading into a fast moving stream of water that gurgled over her feet. "There's a passageway."

It wasn't long and ended in empty space. In front of them, was the chasm they'd ascended, water running past their feet feathering into empty space. Della carefully peered over the edge.

"We might be able to dive down," she said. "There's water down there. Right underneath us."

"I can see rocks underneath us too," Marcurio pointed out. "Let's see if there's an alternative before we leap."

An hour or so later, it was clear that there wasn't. They stood once again at the edge.

"Looks like fun," Della said, sounding only half-convinced. "I'll go first."

"Della, wait." He put his hand on her arm. "Just so you know, there's something I want to tell you."

She looked like she was going to make a joke, but instead she merely nodded.

And his nerve failed.

"I came to Skyrim because I was caught cheating in exams," he confessed with a rush. "My family didn't approve of my wizardry to start with and they took the chance to disown me. They had too many heirs as it was. I came to Skyrim because I hated it. I wanted to be miserable." He took a deep breath, "But I'm not miserable any more."

He shrugged.

"Well, I'm glad you're happier," she said. And then she leaped off the edge.

No, wait, he had more to say. He hadn't meant it to end like that. He reached for her and he was falling too, and he'd barely noticed that when he was slapped in the face by the world and he plunged into the icy depths. His armour dragged on him, as he blinked furiously in the murk, trying to find Della.

There she was, feet below him, swimming for the surface.

How she managed to make any headway at all he didn't know, and he watched a thin stream of bubbles escape from the corner of her mouth.

Against all common sense, he turned and pushed himself down further, reaching for the edge of her pauldrons. He could feel the strength in her as she pushed the water aside. His lungs screamed for air as he kicked upwards, hauling her towards the light above them.

More bubbles escaped and she pushed herself harder, realising she was out of air. He refused to let her go, even as he felt the depths clawing at them.

He was not that strong. He couldn't carry her, but he tried, tried until he saw spots, helping her until he saw nothing, and his head breached the surface after an eternity. He held her up with aching arms, knowing if he lost her now he'd never have the strength to retrieve her again.

They paddled slowly and weakly to the edge and when they reached it they collapsed on it, gasping for breath.

Every time he closed his eyes he could see her drifting downwards into the dark, and he cradled her head against his chest, brushing hair out of her eyes, reassuring himself that she was still there, still breathing.

"What are you doing?" she asked eventually, in a hoarse worn voice that hadn't lost its humour.

"I don't know," he replied.

"That'd be right," she said with an affectionate smile, and she disentangled herself and scrambled to her feet. She swayed and then focused. "We're near the entrance."

They walked out into a land painted gold with the last of the day's sunshine. Marcurio breathed deep and gave thanks to any gods or daedra who might be listening that he had the chance to taste fresh air again. They sat on the stony steps in silence and watched the first evening stars come out.

"You're fired, by the way," Della said pleasantly.

"What?"

He turned to her, full of shock and indignation, and not a little hurt, and she cupped his chin with one hand and kissed him.

All too briefly. It was like a suggestion, and then she let him go again.

"Is that all right? Or have I cost myself another five hundred gold?"

"Ah, no, I think that will be fine." This time he was the one who leaped, just a few inches, and she was waiting to catch him.

* * *

A/N: This story was originally going to be somewhat...smuttier, but it was already getting on the long side. I originally started writing these stories in an attempt to stop myself from starting another epic fanfiction. _Jazz Age_ took over a year to write, and with my current deadlines I simply don't have the time to commit. It's been working up to a point but now an idea has sunk its teeth in and it's all Mercer Frey's fault.


	9. Illdi

A/N: The other idea I had is turning out to be more complicated and intractable than I expected. Have another one of these instead.

* * *

Rajirr swung his tail irritably back and forth, his ears flattened back against his skull. He was standing at a lead-lighted window at the Bards College, watching raindrops chase each other down the diamond patterns of glass. He hated rain, almost as much as he hated snow, almost as much as he hated condescension, almost as much as he hated being ignored.

Another Khajiit would have taken one glance at his body language and kept out of his way for the next few hours, but unfortunately there were barely any other of his kind in the whole country, let alone in the Bards College. He still couldn't decide which he wanted to do less; step out into the rain, or remain here.

This was supposed to be home.

Illdi wasn't a Khajiit. She wasn't all that perceptive at the best of times. Rajirr heard her walk in, and her delighted, "Raj!" at seeing him back at the College. She scampered up behind him and reached up to put her hands over his eyes. "Guess who?" she sung out.

That was the last straw. The fur on the back of his neck stood up, as did that on his tail. He turned his head, and curled his lips back from the fearsome teeth he usually thought it wise not to draw attention to, and _snarled_.

Illdi shrieked and snatched her hands back. He caught a glimpse of her terrified face before she turned and fled, practically tripping over her long skirt. He heard her flee past the atrium and out the front door into the rain.

Bah! Good. It was about time someone fled in fear from him.

But his fur smoothed down after a while, and anger drained from him. It wasn't Illdi's fault. His anger had struck an innocent target. In fact, Illdi was one of the few Nords whom he might presume to call friend. He wasn't sure why the others disliked her so; he found her pleasant and easy to talk to – he might have blamed her unpopularity on himself, but it was clear the animosity stretched back before he'd even arrived in Solitude.

Rajirr sighed; his decision had been made for him. He carefully wrapped his lute in oilskin and slung it over his back before raising his hood over his head and making his way out of the College. As far as he knew, Illdi lived at the College, and wouldn't have gone back to a home. The obvious place to look was the Winking Skeever, and accordingly he splashed through the puddles in that general direction.

She wasn't there. He asked Lisette if she'd seen the other bard, but she only shrugged, "Not today. Would you like to make a request?"

Rajirr shook his head and hurried out into the weather again. Maybe she'd left the city? It was worth finding that out before turning Solitude upside down. The guards were useless as usual but the man with the cart was still there, and he said a girl had run past some time ago, down towards the docks. He glared at Rajirr suspiciously as he did so, but the Khajiit was used to such things.

Illdi had confided that she liked to go down to the docs on clear days to watch the ships coming and going, and daydream about faraway places. Today was not in any way clear, but that appeared to be where she'd gone. Rajirr himself wasn't sure what he was going to do if he found her. Apologise certainly, but what if she didn't want to hear it?

The fact was, her word could see him barred from the city, or worse, if she chose it. His position was precarious at best.

Small mercies; the rain was letting up. He could see the low hanging clouds and their curtains of rain sweeping out to sea as he descended the steps, still slippery and wet, to the docks.

She was sitting on her usual perch; a large flat rock, out of the way, with a commanding view of the harbour. She'd wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Rajirr halted a few feet away, what he hoped she'd feel was a safe distance.

"Illdi?"

She turned to look at him, eyes clear, water beaded on her face and dripping off her hair. She looked startled and slightly nervous to see him. He pushed his hood off his head, his ears twitching as the last few spots of rain struck them.

"I'm sorry I scared you. You didn't do anything wrong; it wasn't your fault."

"I've never seen you so angry," she said softly. "I've never seen you angry at all." She pulled the shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders. "Those teeth," she whispered, mostly to herself.

"I try not to be angry," Rajirr said. "I don't want to make people nervous."

She looked out over the harbour for a few moments, and then shifted to the side in silent invitation. He took it, sitting down on the wet stone beside her..

"I'm sorry I startled you," she said. "But Raj, why were you so angry?"

Rajirr shifted his jaw, "Illdi, do you like the College?"

"Of course I do," she said. "It's like a musical museum."

Rajirr rolled his eyes. That again. "Well, to be honest, I'm feeling a bit disillusioned. I joined the College in good faith, I went and unearthed their missing instruments and that poem."

"Yes! You were wonderful, I'm sure everyone is grateful." She looked at him hopefully.

"Well they certainly don't act grateful. Now I'm done being their errand-boy I may as well have ceased to exist. Not a single lesson, not a trick of harmony or even a few jokes; not that Nord jokes are very good in the first place. This is not why I joined the College. Bards of any kind do not appreciate being ignored."

Illdi frowned, "But-"

"No buts. They hardly treat you any better. Are you allowed to ask for coin for your song yet? Didn't think so. How long have you been waiting?"

"It's my home."

"A home in which you are not appreciated."

"I just don't know what I'm doing wrong!" And then she burst into tears.

"Uh." Rajirr hadn't wanted that reaction. He felt sorry for Illdi; they were in the same boat, more or less, but he hadn't realised how attached she was to the place. "I'm sorry." He reached out cautiously and patted her shoulder.

She turned and flung her arms around his furry neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She cried even harder into his leather jerkin, occasionally saying something, mostly incoherent. Rajirr wrapped his arms around her and let her cry; it sounded like she had a lot bottled up. He was glad the rain had driven everyone away, however; a Khajiit with his arms around a young Nord woman would get a beating if he was lucky, and skinned if he was not.

Eventually, the tears subsided, and Illdi pushed away from him suddenly.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This is unbecoming. I'm sorry."

"You know, Khajiit know sometimes you have to let the tears out first before you can laugh."

She didn't laugh but she did manage a weak smile as she dried her eyes on her shawl.

"What now?" she asked.

"Hm." Rajirr pricked his ears up. "I want to show you something." He got to his feet, and shrugged off his cloak. He handed it to her, and then he unwrapped the lute.

"You can play?" she asked.

Rajirr grinned, "I am here because I wished to learn of Nord music, not because I wished to learn to play. I learned that sitting on my mother's knee." He flexed his fingers, his little claws perfect for plucking at strings. "This is the music of Elsweyr."

Illdi stared transfixed as he slid his claws down the strings, made them purr, stretching the notes out like taffy, slapping the belly of the instrument with the palm of his hand. Nords sung of battles and politics and drinking and death. Khajiit sung of passion; thwarted, unrequited, lost, reciprocated, scorned, all the colours of the heart on display.

For a long time she was silent, but he made room for her nevertheless, and finally she scrambled to her feet and clapped along.

"Come on," he said between verses. "You know the words by now." He repeated the chorus again, about all the beasts the singer would slay for the lover who spurned him. Shy at first, he could barely hear her, but the next time the same words rolled around, she took a deep breath and belted it out.

He'd never heard a Nord sing a Khajiit song. He had to admit, they had big voices; the noise that poured from her throat would have brought a caravan to its feet. And a prospective suitor to their knees. Rajirr bared his teeth again, this time in a wide grin.

They stopped when they saw a guard coming, out of breath, the music still hanging in the air, potential humming along the strings of Rajirr's lute. And Illdi laughed with sheer delight.

"You don't need them," Rajirr said. "To Oblivion with the lot of them."

"Y-yes. I've never heard anything like it. And it was _me_. Well, you too."

"Come with me. I'm going sing songs in the Dragon's tongue, and all of Tamriel will know my name. Yours too. We'll sing for the Emperor himself." He stretched out his hand.

She hesitated, biting her lip. And then she took it. "I'll regret it for the rest of my life if I don't."

"Let's go steal some horses," Rajirr said.

"I thought you said not all Khajiit were thieves," she said, taken aback.

"I'm sure some of them aren't." He shrugged. "Oh, you have have this back too."

Her hand went to her throat as he handed her back her necklace. She put it back on and glanced back at Solitiude. He waited.

She took a deep breath, "Lead on, I follow."

* * *

A/N: Yes, I was disappointed with the Bards College quests, why do you ask? I suspect Khajiit, with their aesthetic appreciation of life, would be excellent bards and the built-in picks don't hurt either. I was listening to the John Butler Trio when I wrote this.


	10. Onmund

A/N: And with this offering of slash I hereby declare the trinity complete. This chapter contains some not-terribly-explicit sexual content.

* * *

"D'you, d'you love me?"

Right at that very moment, Onmund decided he did not. Brilliant, Breton, and undeniably handsome notwithstanding, Jase was a terrible drunk. And as usual Onmund had drawn the short straw (alright, he volunteered) to go and fetch his fellow student from The Frozen Hearth. Not many mages felt welcome enough to leave the College to drink, but Jase made friends very easily; a lot more easily than Onmund did.

So the pair of them were staggering back up to the College, Jase's arm draped around the Nord's shoulders while he breathed mead fumes into his ear.

"You know, most people wait until after their exams to celebrate," Onmund pointed out, trying to change the subject. The potential intersection of his and Jase's love lives was not something he felt comfortable thinking about, let alone discussing.

"Mmm. I was lonely," Jase said. "Where were you?" He flung his other arm around Onmund's neck, nearly pulling him off balance.

"I was studying."

He could practically hear Jase roll his eyes. Jase never studied, at least, not for exams. He did 'research' instead, which sometimes took him to the library, and sometimes took him to the bottom of the most disgusting caves and tombs in Skyrim. And all too often, Onmund found himself unable to decline the invitation to accompany him on these 'field trips.'

When he wasn't drunk, Jase was not so blasé about Onmund's grades. One morning the Breton had practically dragged him away from the breakfast table to the library, sat him down with their textbooks and fiercely informed him that he was going to be tutored. Whether he liked it or not. It took Onmund a few hours to finally get the truth from him; J'zargo had referred to him as a 'foolish oaf' and Jase had taken it upon himself to prove the Khajiit wrong.

It was only after the exams that he discovered Jase had wagered two hundred septims on the matter as well. J'zargo lost his wager, Jase got half the tavern extravagantly drunk, and Onmund got a happy memory of Jase's patient voice in his ear, his thin fingers flipping through the textbooks, and the sense that someone, finally, wanted him to be a mage as badly as he did.

Onmund was sometimes frustrated by his own abilities, or lack of them, but Jace was on another level; he was frustrated by magic itself. He could rail for hours about it, or sulk, and then he'd get an idea and spend weeks furiously trying to make it work. Onmund was afraid that one of these days he was going to jump off the College roof in an attempt to fly.

He managed to steer them onto College grounds at last, while Jase tried to catch snowflakes on his tongue.

"Now be quiet," he admonished. "Everyone else has gone to bed."

"We could go to bed," Jase said, with a crooked grin. "Yes, let's do that." Emboldened by this idea, he staggered on to the Hall of Attainment, and fumbled uselessly at the door until Onmund opened it for him. "Yes! Quickly quickly, it's cold."

"Oh for the sake of the Divines." That sounded like Brelyna, her voice blurry from sleep. "Shut up! We have exams." A shoe was flung out of her room and it hit Onmund on the chest.

He didn't take it personally; she clearly wasn't aiming at him.

Jase dragged him over to Onmund's own room, and gleefully face-planted on his bed and started snoring. Onmund frowned. He was _not_ going to join him. Instead he took himself over to Jase's own room, picked his way around the piles of books and weapons that littered the space, and crawled into his bed. It was cold. It smelled of Jase.

Stupid question, he thought as he buried his face in Jase's pillow; of course he loved him.

As usual Jase awoke apparently blessed by an immunity to hangovers, aced his exams, finished them early and was gone before Onmund had even finished the first section.

And he came back with the Staff of Magus. And then Onmund couldn't keep track of the terrible things that were happening, but when it was all over Jase stood alone and grim and suddenly ten years older. He moved into the Archmage's Quarters.

And then he moved out.

Onmund found the Librarian utterly swamped under the stacks of books Jase had suddenly donated to the collection and J'zargo found the Staff of Magus resting on the end of his bed one evening; almost everyone in the College was suddenly showered with gifts, anonymous but clearly from the new Archmage.

Everyone except Onmund.

He waited for a day or two, fretting and worrying, and then worry turned to annoyance, and he held onto that until he had the courage to storm up the stairs to the Archmage's quarters and knock politely.

"Who is it?" Jase called.

Onmund chose to hear 'please come in' and did so.

The Archmage was sorting through a huge chest of soulgems, holding each up to his ear and shaking it to see if it had a soul inside it or not, and sorting them into little piles. He looked up from his work with a gratifyingly guilty expression.

"Jase, I mean, Archmage, with all due respect," he was slightly out of breath from all those stairs and sheer nerves. "What are you doing?" And why are you ignoring me?

"I'm deciding what to keep. And don't call me Archmage, please."

Onmund looked around the room at the empty baskets and chests and wardrobes. He'd never seen Jase without at least several hundredweight of objects in his general vicinity. These bare surroundings made Onmund uneasy.

"Why?"

"I don't need them."

"Why?" He hated sounding like a petulant child, but until Jase told him what in Oblivion he thought he was doing, he was going to keep asking.

"What do you mean why? Are you angry I didn't give you anything?"

Onmund flushed. When he put it like that it sounded so avaricious.

Jace's gaze softened some, "It's just junk, Onmund. I couldn't think of anything to give you. I suppose I should have come up with something-"

"It's all right," he said. "Just, please, tell me what is going on."

"Oh, that, right." He flashed him a grin, with lots of teeth, and got to his feet, dusting off his knees. "I'm going to continue my research. Somewhere else. I can't think here. Archmage this, and Archmage that. Bah."

"Where are you going?" Onmund heard himself say faintly.

"I don't know yet. Dwemmer ruins are fun and all but they're dead ends. Caves are full of bandits and really cold, and tombs? Don't get me started on those. A keep would be nice."

"Jase," Onmund took a step forward. "Please don't do this."

"Why in the world not? I have to know, Onmund. I have to know what happened to magic. Why can't we fly any more? Why can't we transport ourselves, instantly, across the continent? Look at what we've been reduced to!" he snarled, and Onmund could see the waves of power rippling up his arms. "Those Psijic bastards," he continued. "I bet they know." His hands bunched into fists, "I should have broken the milk drinker's teeth the first time he opened his mouth."

"Jase, listen to yourself. Is this really what you want to do? You know, you _know_ what happens to mages who leave the college to live in the wilderness. You know that in ten, or twenty, or a hundred years time, they'll send someone to get a book or something and they'll find another monster."

Jase looked at him, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes gleaming, "You think I'm a monster."

Onmund shook his head, "No, not yet."

Jase narrowed his eyes, "Get out."

That's why they call it heartbreak, he realised, because it actually, physically hurt, like someone was twisting something in his chest. Not someone, Jase. He looked too young and too old and he'd noticed that Onmund hadn't made any move to leave.

"What is it now?"

"I...I just..." He shrugged helplessly, grabbed a fistful of Jase's shirt and kissed him. It was more a colliding of mouths, really, and he was pretty sure Jase's tooth had bruised his lip. It wasn't what he'd hoped for at all, nothing like his daydreams. He shoved him away again, Jase's expression one of open-mouthed bewilderment. "I hope you're happy."

And with that he turned and marched out.

His ears were ringing, or burning, or something, and his hands appeared to be all thumbs – another of Brelyna's spells gone awry perhaps. He threw a spare robe and some apples and his boots into a satchel, realised he'd need his boots, unpacked them, packed a blanket instead that probably belonged to the College, put his boots on and stormed out, intending never to return.

Gods, what a fool he'd been.

He was on the road somewhere north of Windhelm after being chased by bandits and given the stink-eye by a guard outside a mine when he heard hoof beats. He looked over his shoulder to see Jase astride his bad-tempered gelding, Ulfric (whom he loved to refer to by name, loudly and often.) He wasn't dressed for travelling; his head was bare and he carried neither weapons nor provisions.

He slid from the beast's back before it had come to a halt, automatically stepping out of the way as it tried to bite him.

"You can move fast when you want to," he said.

"I learned that from you," Onmund replied, his heart pounding partly from sheer shock.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jase asked.

"Away. From you."

"But I'm leaving! Wouldn't it make more sense to stay, in that case?"

"No! Not when ever.y. Single. Flagstone. Would remind me of you." He jabbed his finger against Jace's chest with every word, suddenly feeling wild and reckless. What did it matter now?

There was that surprised look again that collapsed into a thoughtful smile, "You know, they told me Nords weren't good with words. Untrue, it seems. They're just very, very slow to say them."

Onmund didn't quite know what to say to that and he fixed his gaze on his boots. He heard Jase sigh, and when he looked up he was running his hands over his head distractedly.

"Well I don't know, now," he said.

"Don't know what?"

"What to do." He raised an eyebrow. Onmund knew that look, it meant he'd had a stroke of inspiration. "Ah, yes I do." Onmund caught Jase's grin and then lost his own breath as the man stepped up to him, bold as brass, and kissed him. Cold hands cupped his face, and that tooth was back, this time scraping over his lip and then he felt his _tongue-_

He clamped his arms around the Breton, squeezing him perhaps a bit harder than necessary. Jace wheezed slightly, and pulled back.

"You are not living in a cave. Or a keep," Onmund said, proud that his voice wasn't cracking.

"Oh," he slid his hands down to Onmund's chest. "Fine." He took a deep breath, "Watch this!"

He watched flakes of magic, like a blizzard, settle on Jace's hands for a moment, and then whirl around them both. He could feel the hum of approaching magic, like a storm, but he couldn't identify it; the spell was like nothing he'd ever seen before. The world lurched sideways. And then he was falling; instinctively he grabbed Jase as the only solid thing in the universe and then they thumped into a pile of furs.

Onmund sneezed.

They were...in the Archmage's Quarters. On the bed.

Jase was sitting on him, gazing around like they were in the Imperial Palace, his jaw slightly open.

"I did it," he said. "I did it!" He broke into the widest, maddest grin Onmund had ever seen. "We were there and now we're here. We have to go back. There might be residues- and Ulfric."

Onmund grabbed Jase's arm. "Jase. You don't have to go. You'll do it again. Believe me."

He could sense he still wanted to go, tensed like a half-wild bird. He gazed up at him; he wasn't going to beg, Jase had to decide.

He sighed.

"I suppose you're right." His grin turned wicked, "But you're going to make it up to me."

Onmund felt heat thrum through him, "I promise I'll do my best."

Jase chuckled and let himself flop forward.

Onmund considered himself rather inexperienced and not all that adventurous but Jace wasn't hard to figure out. He was just like him, he bared his neck for biting, and laughed when poked in the ribs and groaned when Onmund squeezed him just hard enough.

Onmund was dinner, devoured messily, finger food, slick and salt and squirming. Jase was dessert, hissing through his teeth, curled over Onmund's head, tugging on his blonde hair hard enough to hurt. And they flopped back, sated, and grew cold and dug under the blankets. Onmund dosed off for a little while and then he found his hands drifting, and Jase pressed his leg up between his. They threw the blankets off, generating more than enough heat.

Onmund didn't want to make noise, whimpering and gasping, while Jase made enough to wake the dead.

When Onmund cracked his eye open the next day, Jace was sitting up in bed, scowling and scratching the stubble on his chin.

"I need to get all my stuff back," he said, when he noticed the Nord was awake.

"Forget it," Onmund rolled over. "It was just junk anyway."


End file.
